


The Born King, the Brothel Brat

by AndreaDTX



Category: King Arthur: Legend of the Sword (2017)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 14:17:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11807670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaDTX/pseuds/AndreaDTX
Summary: He may be the born king, but he kind of misses being just Art, the bastard from the brothel.





	The Born King, the Brothel Brat

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoyed this movie and am super bummed it tanked. After watching it, I just didn't want to leave that world. So I looked for fan fiction to read some more, but there was so little of it! I'm spoiled for choice in my regular fandoms, so I thought I'd write the fan fic I wanted to read. 
> 
> A/N: I don't speak British English or Arthurian English. Google and I did our best, but if you see mistakes, I welcome feedback. Any anachronisms are my fault, but charge them to my head and not to my heart.
> 
> A/N: Fixed all the typos. That's why you don't post things that you wrote an hour after your normal bed time...

_I am far too comfortable…_

Arthur never slept this well in the brothel. He had terrible nightmares, the kind- that made his lungs burn like a drowning swimmer until he was able to burst to the surface of consciousness to lie gasping on his pallet, soaked in sweat, straw stabbing into him through his worn thin coverings.

But not this morning.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, there was no monster with a flaming skull awaiting him in his dreams. No woman falling impaled, wordlessly into the pitch-black waters. The scars on his palms didn’t ache and burn upon waking. There was blessed, thoughtless sleep and waking actually feeling rested.

After a few moments more of blissful wallowing, Arthur allowed his eyes to ease open and wonder across the ceilings and walls. The room felt vaguely familiar. Arthur supposed it was given that he’d spent his tender years here, but he couldn’t properly recall. As he lay in the bed, more than a little in awe of how soft the bedding was, his mind wandered to how not even two settings of the sun ago, his uncle had likely lain in this same bed plotting to kill him and steal Arthur’s birthright for himself. Another thought scurried behind it. Given that this was the king’s quarters, it was entirely possible that he had come into being right in this very bed. The thought gave him a moment of discomfort before he remembered himself and laughed at the thought of someone who had lived, worked, and cleaned a brothel being squeamish about such matters.

But he was no longer in the brothel.

There were no drafty winds blowing through his cramped quarters, no coquettish giggles or carnal groans so pervasive he didn’t even bother to block them out, no stale perfume or pungent sweat or cloying lust. Instead, as he pushed his way out of the posh bedding and put his feet on the floor, he smelled fresh bread and fresher air.

What had begun as a simple attempt to protect the courtesan ladies who had always protected him ended with Arthur, bastard of the brothel, taking his place as the Born King of all bloody England.

If he hadn’t just woken up, he’d swear he was dreaming.

Arthur dressed in his usual dark, leather trousers and linen tunic, securing Excalibur by his side, and exited the king’s— _his_ – quarters. The soldiers in the hall snapped to attention. Cries of ‘God save the king’ and ‘Long live the king’ echoed through the corridor as he made his way, putting Arthur more and more at ill-ease with each step. The men were from the resistance. The Black Legs had been beaten back and driven into exile if not outright killed. In theory, he was the safest man in all of England. But Arthur knew better. He might be the king now, but he hadn't forgotten the terror of being bound hand and foot in the dungeon, marked for death. ‘Long live the king’ had been yelled at him then as well.

Arthur followed his nose, and his stomach, to the kitchen. As he entered, a surprise ‘ _Oi!’_ was followed by the clatter of dishes as the ladies hurried to curtsy. ‘Sire’, ‘Your majesty’, ‘Long live the king’ once again sprinkled the air.

“M'ladies, no need for all that,” he said as he snagged a pastry from a blushing girl of about thirteen summers. He bit into the sweet and groaned as the buttery layers melted in his mouth. “This is heavenly.”

“Anythin’ for you, sire,” a portly woman, clearly the charge cook, said with a slight bounce as she curtsied.

He shook his head again and gave an impish smile. “None of that. It’s Arthur. What’s your name?”

Her eye brows lifted, expressing her clear surprise that he would bother to ask. “Theodora, your majesty. And we’ll address you properly as befittin’ your station, sire.”

“Pah. We both know you would have boxed my ears not even a month ago for even darin’ to step foot in here.”

Theodora blushed, but didn’t disagree.

“And before that ‘my station’ would have meant you woulda crossed the street had I been walkin’ your way.”

A few more heads bowed in abashed acknowledgment of the truth.

Arthur tsked. “I’m not tryin’ to make you feel bad. I’m sayin’ I don’t put much stock in stations. You and your station are not beneath me. As the nobles will be glad to remind you, I was raised in a brothel, and those ladies were kinder to me than any noble woman has ever been. I'm your king and as far as I'm concerned that puts you under my care. If you need anything, come to me or one of my knight’s and we’ll make sure you get it.  I'm here at your command.”

He bowed at the waist and inwardly chuckled as it set off a chain of quick curtsies and astonished faces. He snagged another pastry and ducked out the door.

“God’s hooks, he’s a looker.” An undignified squawk was quickly drowned out by giggles and murmurs of agreement.

Arthur grinned and continued on. By the time he reached the throne, he was licking the crumbs of the pastry off his fingers. He looked around the vast room. He’d already moved Vortigern’s vaulted throne and replaced it with his round table which they were nearly finished building.

“Oi! The lazy bum has finally graced us with his presence! Long live the Born King!” Wet Stick laughed, elbowing Goosefat. “Did you enjoy the King’s quarters, _sire_?”

“Laugh it up, chaps. I didn’t see any of you lot fightin’ to sleep outside last night, ya hanger-ons.” Arthur took a seat between Goosefat and Kung Fu George. As he settled, he noticed a pinch-faced fellow standing in the corner with a scroll clutched tightly between his fingers.

“Who’s he?” Arthur asked, gesturing with his head.

Percival threw an arm around the man and pulled him closer to the table. “We found this squawker outside the door. He says he ‘schedules the king’s affairs.’ Bedivere vouched for him so we let him stay.”

Bedivere shrugged. “Your father liked him and I’ve never known him to pick up a sword or spill a secret either way.”

“A’right,” Arthur said. “What can I do for you?”

The man, easily twice Arthur’s age, dropped to his knees, nearly collapsing in his urgency to bow prostrate on the floor.  Percival mockingly bowed behind him with a flurry of hand motions and kissy faces. Arthur bit his lip to smother a laugh.

“No, no, sire,” the man said.  “The question is what can _I_ do for _you_? Your majesty. It is the highest of honors to meet you. My family has humbly served the Pendragons for over 100 years. I personally served your father, King Uther, and, unfortunately, your uncle, Vortigern.” The man spat the name with distaste. “I gratefully present myself to your service. Long live King Arthur, the _Born_ King.”

If it was even possible, he pushed himself even more flush with the ground.

 _Wow,_ Goosefat mouthed with wide eyes.

Arthur cleared his throat. “Okay. At ease or as you were or whatever. Get up. What’s your name?”

The man popped to his feet, surprisingly spry for a man of his years. “Ignatius, sire.”

“And beside humbly serve me, what exactly do you do?”

“Well, for your father, I served as a gatekeeper of sorts. So many people wanted to speak with him that I prioritized who received audience and made sure no one monopolized his time. You seem like even more a man of the people than he. Perhaps I can help you with this, too?”

Arthur thought for a moment. “I don’t want anyone turned away because of their ‘station.’ I won't have it.”

“No, of course not, sire. I simply delegate so that you don’t end up decide who a sow truly belongs to or such matters.”

“It’s bacon regardless,” Goosefat chimed in with a laugh.

Ignatius gave a strained laugh but continued to peer at Arthur awaiting orders.

“'sall well enough. Who do I need to see today?” Arthur asked. Ignatius lit up with joy.

Bevidere gave him a pitying smile.

The day passed in a parade of subjects, some of whom had legitimate disputes and proposals and some who seemed to have made up a story just strong enough to get them audience with the King. By the end of the day, Arthur’s ears hurt from listening. He’d thought after nearly 20 years of living in a house of ill repute, full of women, there was no way to actually talk his ears off, but he was now reconsidering it.

“Is that the last of them, Ignatius?” He asked, trying to keep the whine out of his voice.

“Yes, sire,” the man replied with a bob of his head just as energetic as it had been hours ago before the sun crept into the hillside to sleep.

“Good. Then I’ll see you in the morrow.”

“Bright and early, sire!” After a series of bows, he took leave, Percival closing the throne room door behind.

“God’s hooks!” Arthur exclaimed. Laughter exploded in the room.

“I wish you could have seen the look on your face when that lady tried to get you to declare her chickens part of the protected royal court!” Wet Stick barked out, nearly choking with laughter.

“Well, laugh all you want. Tomorrow, I’m divvying that up. This is a round table and you’ll be earning your keep.”

They protested for a bit but accepted in the end.

Arthur sighed and lay his head on the table.

“Crown’s heavier than it looked?” Bedivere asked.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Arthur grumbled. He looked around for a moment and a thought struck. “Let’s make a break.”

“A break? Out of the palace?” Wet Stick asked.

“After all the work we did to break in here?” George seconded.

“Lads, if I hear ‘Long live the king’ or ‘yes, sire’ one more time, I cannot be held responsible for what I do. I just want to be 'Art' for a few hours. Are you with me?”

The table was silent for a moment.

“Sure, boss,” Wet Stick answered with a grin.

They found themselves sneaking out through the underground tunnel.

“Who’da thought Art would be king and still sneaking around the gates like a tunnel rat?”

“Well, I can’t let all that practice I got from sneaking to see your mum go to waste now can I, Goosefat?”

The tunnel rang with laughter and Arthur felt lighter than he had in weeks. He’d spent his entire life running the streets of the city, making sure no one saw him. It was tiring to constantly be in one place with everyone hanging on his every word and made him feel like ants crawled under his skin.

After a bit of a trek, they ended up at a gorge Arthur had found when he was just a lad. Close enough that he could get back to the brothel in a hurry if need be, but far enough that he could hear himself think. Love them though he had, about once a moon the ladies had been unbearable and he’d needed a place to be away.

“Is it everything you dreamed of?” Wet Stick asked, gesturing towards Arthur’s sword.

Arthur looked up from where he’d been reclining and sipping at a jug of ale. “I never dreamt of this. Not in my wildest dreams would I have imagined.”

“Do you wish it had been different?” Bedivere asked.

Arthur was surprised because Bedivere so seldom spoke. He thought for a moment. “Of course, I wish my mum and dad had lived, but I don’t think it could have happened any other way. If I’d been raised in the castle, I’d probably be some posh dandy with no sympathy for cutpurses or the kinda ladies that raised me. I probably wouldn’t have half the fight I got in me. Or worse I coulda ended up like my uncle, drunk on my own puffed up importance. This way, it all means more to me than it ever coulda otherwise and I never take it for granted.”

“You gotta admit. It’s like that fairytales, your mum used to tell you.” Wet stick grimaced. “Sorry, Art, my mum, not yours.”

Arthur waved it off. “Yeah. How else would a brothel bastard turn out to be the rightful king of England?”

“People are going to be telling your story for years, Boss. You’re going to be a legend,” George said.

Arthur laughed. “Yeah, right. ‘The Legend of King Arthur.’”

Percival took a gulp from his drink. “Nah. You gotta make it about the magic. Like ‘The Sword in the Stone.’”

The group went quiet for a few minutes. And then cracked up.

“It was just a thought,” Percival grumbled.

“To the Born King.”

“No, to the Brothel Bastard.”

“To both!”

A round of here-here’s rang out.

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at this fandom. Feedback is welcome but please be kind. Thanks!


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